Fall (VIP #3)(29)

Stella flushes prettily. “I tried once. I’m ashamed to say the strings hurt my fingers too much to continue.”

Now, if it were anyone else, I’m fairly certain she’d be getting a lecture on fortitude and working through the pain, but Sam—the old dog—merely nods in understanding. “Have to be bit by the bug or it doesn’t work.”

Oddly, Stella appears to exactly what he’s talking about. “Some things are like that.”

“What made you want to try, though?” I ask, unable to keep quiet. My voice seems to startle them both, as if they’d forgotten I was there.

Stella straightens, her blunt nose wrinkling. She hesitates.

“Was it a song?” I ask. “A certain player you admired?” Me? One can hope.

“You’re going to laugh,” she says, eyeing me like I’m waiting to pounce.

“I’m not going to laugh.” I scratch the stubble on my chin. “Well, maybe.”

Stella glares, but Sam cuts in. “Nobody judges musical tastes here.”

“Jax does,” she says somewhat petulantly. It’s weird hearing her say my stage name. I can’t really call it a stage name at this point either. Everyone calls me Jax. I only hear the name John if one of the guys or Brenna is pissed at me. I’ve been Jax so long, the name John is barely me anymore. But for reasons I don’t fully understand, I prefer to hear it from her lips.

“Jax has to be a snob,” Sam says, cutting into my thoughts. “He’s English.”

“It’s a badge of distinction,” I tease. “Now tell us your dark secrets, Stella Button.” I want them all. What the hell? Why? Why should I even care?

Not seeing my frown of confusion, Stella sighs. “Okay. I was sixteen and went with some friends to see a re-showing of Pulp Fiction at one of those big theaters.” Already, I’m perking up, a grin pulling at my lips, because I know what she’s going to say. Her blush is freaking adorable. “And there was that guitar piece by—”

“Dick Dale,” Sam and I say in unison.

“‘Misirlou.’” I press a hand to my heart. “A brilliant classic.”

Stella appears relieved that we approve. Though, honestly, if she’d thrown out some garbage song, I wouldn’t have said a word. Despite my teasing, Sam is right; there is no judging here. “It was just so fast and free,” she says. “I wanted to feel that free.”

Why did she? Why are there shadows in her eyes when she says it? Absently, I scratch my chest where the skin has gone hot and tight. My interest in this girl is getting out of hand. I am cool and collected, an iceberg, remote and alone.

Ah, hell, even I can’t swallow that tripe.

“Are you okay?” Stella asks, peering at me as though she sees far too much.

“I’m fine.” I glare back, hoping to throw her off. “Why?”

She shrugs. “You kind of look like you had indigestion.” Sam snickers while Stella smiles, all Ms. Innocent Helper. “I was going to offer you an antacid.”

“Cute,” I mutter. “My stomach is right as rain, Button. But the minute I feel a rumble, I’ll let you know.”

Her lips press tight, and I can’t tell if she’s fighting a laugh or if she’s annoyed. Probably both.

I break our silence by turning toward Sam. “You have the strings?” I’d almost forgotten why I was here in the first place.

“Sure do.” He heads to the back of the store, leaving Stella and me alone.

“Sam is awesome,” Stella says. “I’m going to ask him if he wants to be on my sandwich rotation.”

“Sandwich rotation?”

She studies a Whammy pedal sitting on the counter. “Some people don’t like leaving their shops for lunch. So I bring them a sandwich.”

I know I’m staring. I can’t help it. I haven’t met anyone like this woman. Never met anyone so dedicated to making others feel better just by offering simple things. “Who are you?”

She frowns as if I’m off my nut. I’m beginning to think I am with her.

“I’m Stella Grey,” she says simply.

Shaking my head, I give her a wry look. “You are a remarkable woman, you know that?”

Her cheeks pink. “Aren’t all women?”

“Not the way you are.” Not to me, at any rate. I love women and live in awe over their strength and cleverness, but none of them fascinate me the way Stella does. I could spend all day happily waiting to hear what she says next. A warning voice in the back of my mind says I should probably be concerned about this, but I ignore it in favor of watching her blush. Such a lovely clash of pinks and reds.

Sam comes out from the back holding a black-and-white 1976 Fender Strat with a maple neck. “Got something for you. David said you’d asked about it.”

“Holy shit,” I breathe. “Tell me we’re talking about the same David.”

“You know it.” Sam hands me the guitar. “Signed the back.”

Sure enough, there’s a signature on the back, made out to me.

Stella watches us with wide eyes, clearly out of her element. “Who is David?”

I heft the wide-body guitar in my hand before settling it on my lap. “You might know him as U2’s lead guitarist. We hung out a few times, talked about exchanging guitars.” I test the strings and make a small tuning adjustment. “Thought it was one of those things you say off the cuff, you know?” Looks like I’m going to have to pick out something nice to send to him. Totally fucking worth it.